William opened his mouth as for a burst of song. Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind and pursed his lips as if for a whistle. Then, after a breathless moment of silence, he unpursed them and humming untunefully under his breath he entered by the side door.
The hall was empty. Through the open kitchen door he could see his mother and Ethel, his grown-up sister, cutting sandwiches at one table and the cook and housemaid at another. He went into the kitchen.
‘Who’re you makin’ sandwiches for?’ he demanded.
His mother surveyed him sadly.
‘I do wish you could keep clean for more than two minutes together, William,’ she said.
William smoothed back an obstreperous mop of hair with a grimy hand.
‘Yes,’ he agreed mechanically, ‘but who’re you makin’ sandwiches for?’
Ethel paused with a butter-laden knife in mid-air.
‘Don’t for Heaven’s sake tell him,’ she said, ‘and let’s hope and pray that he’ll keep out of the way till it’s over. It’ll be enough trouble without him hanging round.’
William ejected the tip of his tongue in her direction behind his mother’s back.
‘Yes – but – who’re – you – makin’ – sandwiches – for?’ he said slowly and emphatically, with an air of patience tried beyond endurance.
‘I think he’d be rather a help than otherwise, you know,’ said his mother, carefully arranging pieces of tongue on a slice of bread and butter.
Ethel merely shrugged her shoulders.
‘I s’pose,’ said William with heavy sarcasm, ‘you’re makin’ them jus’ for fun?’
‘Clever!’ said Ethel, cutting off the crusts of a sandwich.
William, whose appetite was a never-failing quality, fell upon the crusts and began to eat them.
‘Don’t spoil your lunch, dear,’ murmured Mrs Brown.
‘No,’ promised William, ‘but – all – I – want – to – know – is – who’re – you – makin’ – sandwiches – for?’
‘Oh, do say something and stop him saying that awful sentence,’ groaned Ethel.
‘Well, dear,’ began his mother persuasively, ‘would you like a little party this afternoon?’
‘People coming to tea?’ asked William guardedly.
‘Yes, dear, you’d be such a help – and—’
William interrupted.
‘I’ll eat up all they leave afterwards for you,’ he said obligingly; ‘but I think I won’t come this time.’
‘Thank Heaven!’ murmured Ethel.
‘I’m not much good at parties,’ said William with perfect truth and with a perfunctory grimace at his sister.
‘But wouldn’t you like to help to hand things round, darling?’ asked Mrs Brown.
‘No, thanks, but I’ll eat up all they’ve left for you afterwards.’
‘How kind!’ said Ethel.
William, goaded at last to verbal retaliation, turned on her.
‘If you say much more to me,’ he said darkly, ‘I’ll – I’ll – I’ll not help you at any of your parties.’
He then echoed her derisive laughter in a piercing tenor.
‘William, darling,’ sighed Mrs Brown, ‘do go and wash your face.’
William crammed a handful of crusts into his mouth, put the cushion from the armchair on to the top of the cat, and went out into the hall. Here he burst suddenly into a flood of raucous sound –
Oh, who will o’er the downs with me?
Oh, who will with me ri – i – i – i – ide?
Mr Brown opened the library door.
‘Will – you – stop – that – confounded – noise?’ he demanded emphatically.
‘I’m sorry,’ said William amicably. ‘I forgot you din’t like musick.’
After lunch William sallied forth once more into the world. He was feeling slightly bored. Ginger and Douglas and Henry, his three sworn allies, were all away on their holidays. William did not consider holidays unmixed blessings. Anyway, he considered that there ought to be a law that everyone should go on their holidays at the same time. He walked again down the village street. He did not sing this time. Instead he threw stones at the telegraph poles. He stood at one telegraph pole and tried to hit the one across the road. Every pole that was hit was to William a magnificent tiger, falling lifeless, shot by William through the heart. The parrot, catching sight of him again, gave an excited scream. This put William off his aim. He screamed back at the parrot, missed the telegraph pole and hit a King Charles spaniel in a garden. He then dropped the rest of his stones and fled from the indignant owner of the dog. She pursued him down the street. ‘You cruel boy – I’ll tell your father – a poor dumb animal—’ She gave up the chase at the end of the road, and William went on his way whistling, his hands in his pockets. At a bend in the road he stood suddenly silent. A group of children were walking along in front of him. They had evidently just come out of the station. At their head walked a tall, thin man. The children – boys and girls – were about William’s age. They were clean and tidy, but badly dressed, and with pale cockney faces. William hurried along the road. A little girl turned round.
‘ ’Ullo,’ she said with a friendly grin, ‘did yer nearly git left be’ind? Wot’s yer nime?’
William liked the almost incredible frizziness of her over-crimped hair. He liked the dirty feather in her hat and the violent blue of her dress. He liked her white stockings and yellow boots. He thought her altogether and entirely charming. He liked the way she talked. He found her whole personality intriguing. His grim freckled features relaxed into an ingratiating smile.
‘William,’ he replied. ‘Wot’s yours?’
‘Heglantine,’ she said. ‘Noice nime, ain’t it? Me sister’s called ’Oratia. Loverly, comin’ on the trine, weren’t it?’
It was evident that she took him for one of her party William grasped at the opportunity of continuing the acquaintance. ‘Um,’ he said non-committally.
‘Din’t see yer on the trine. Such a crawd, weren’t there? Some from St Luke’s an’ some from St Mary’s. Oi dunno ’aft of ’em, an’ don’t think much o’ some of ’em by their looks. Oi were jus’ lookin’ aht fer someone ter pal up wif.’
William’s heart swelled with delight at this implied superiority. A boy in front turned round. He was pale and undersized and wore a loud check cap that would have fitted a grown man.
‘ ’Ullo, Freckles!’ he said to William.
William glared at him fiercely.
‘You jus’ mind wot you say to me,’ he began darkly.
Eglantine quickly interposed.
‘Nah then, Elbert ’Olmes,’ she said sharply, tossing her tight curls and feathered hat. ‘None of your fice ’ere! You mind wot yer syes ter me an’ my frens.’
The boy grinned and dropped behind with them.
‘Wot we goin’ ter do, anywyes,’ he said in a mollifying tone of friendship. ‘Not much ter do in the country, is there? No pishers, no nuffin’.’
‘There’s gimes,’ said William, deliberately adopting the accent of his new friends. He decided to adopt it permanently. He considered it infinitely more interesting than that used by his own circle.
‘Gimes!’ said the boy in the check cap with infinite scorn. ‘Runnin’ rices an’ suchlike. An’ lookin’ at cows an’ pickin’ flowers. Thanks! Not much!’
William stored up this expression for future use.
‘Well, yer needn’t of come, Elbert ’Olmes,’ said Eglantine sharply, ‘if yer din’t of wanted to.’
‘They said,’ said Elbert grimly, ‘as ’ow there’d be a tea, an’ oi’m not one ter miss a tea – a proper tea wif cike an’ all – not much!’
William was watching the large check cap with fascinated eyes.
‘Where’d you get that cap?’ he said at last.
‘Dunno,’ said the boy. He took it off and looked at William’s.
‘Loike ter swop?’
William nodded. The boy whipped off the ca
p without a word and handed it to William, taking William’s school cap in return. William, with a sigh of bliss, put it on. It enveloped his whole head and forehead, the large peak standing out over his nose. He pulled it firmly down. It was the cap of his dreams – the cap of a brigand chief.
‘We hare smart, ain’t we?’ said Eglantine with a high-pitched laugh.
William felt blissfully happy walking along beside her.
‘Wot does yer farver do?’ demanded Elbert of William suddenly.
‘Wot does yours?’ replied William guardedly.
‘ ’E goes rahnd wiv a barrer sellin’ things,’ said Elbert.
‘Moine sweeps chimeneys,’ said Eglantine shrilly, ‘ ’e gets that black.’
They both turned to William.
‘Wot does yours do?’
William bowed his head in shame. He could not bear to confess that his father neither sold things nor swept chimneys, but merely caught a train to London and his office every morning.
‘Ain’t got no father,’ he said doggedly.
‘You’re a horphin, then,’ said Eglantine, with an air of wide knowledge of the world.
‘Umph,’ grunted William.
At this point the tall, thin man in front stopped and collected his flock around him. He wore a harassed and anxious expression.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘are we all here? One – two – three – four,’ he counted to himself, wagging a thin forefinger round the group as he spoke.
WILLIAM FELT BLISSFULLY HAPPY WALKING ALONG BESIDE HER.
‘Plears, sir, William’s a horphin,’ said Eglantine excitedly.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the tall man. ‘Let me see – I seem to make you one too many, but no matter – William an orphan? How sad! Poor little fellow! Come along. We’re going to play in the woods first, children, and then go to a kind friend’s to tea. The Vicar rang her up this morning and she very kindly offered to give you tea. Very kind! Very kind! Yes, yes. This way, I think.’
Again the little procession moved on its way.
‘Softie!’ commented Eglantine scornfully. ‘ ’E’s one of the swanks, ’e is! ’E’s a friend of the Vicar’s, ’cause the Vicar couldn’t come. Ain’t got no patience wiv ’em myself. Whoi carn’t they talk like other folks?’
William redoubled his efforts to acquire his friend’s intonation.
‘Yes, whoi-oi’d loike ter know,’ he said aggressively, pulling his large and loud tweed cap yet farther over his eyes. The tall, thin man at the head of the procession stopped again.
‘I’ll just go into this house, children,’ he said, ‘and ask the way to the woods.’
He went up the pathway and knocked at the door. The group of children clustered round the gate and watched him. The door was opened by a housemaid. The thin man disappeared inside. The door was shut.
‘Are we going to hang round him all the time?’ asked William discontentedly. ‘Won’t be any fun – not much,’ he added proudly, after a slight pause.
‘Well, ’e knows the wye an’ we don’t,’ said Elbert.
‘I do,’ said William. ‘You come with me – quick – afore he comes out.’
They followed William silently round the back of the house and across a field. From the other end of the field they had a glimpse of the tall man coming out of the house, taking off his hat with a polite bow, then standing at the gate and looking round in bewildered amazement. Then they disappeared over a stile into another road. Here a small person at the rear of the procession set up a plaintive cry.
‘Oh – oo – oo,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m tahred of the country Oo – oo – oo, I want to gow ’owm.’
Eglantine came to the rescue.
‘If you don’t shut up makin’ that noise, Christine ’Awkins,’ she said, ‘a cow or sumphin’ll eat you up. Yer never knows in the country.’
The sound ceased as by magic. William led his friends along the road. At a pair of iron gates leading past a lodge into a winding drive, Eglantine stopped.
‘I’m tahred of walkin’ along this ’ere road,’ she announced. ‘Let’s go in here.’
Even William was aghast.
‘It’s someone’s garden,’ he explained.
‘Fought yer could go anywhere yer loiked in the country,’ said Eglantine aggrievedly. ‘That’s wot they said, anyway. They said yer could go anywheres yer loiked in the country. Dunno whoi we cime,’ she ended wearily.
The shrill wail rose again from the back of the crowd.
‘Oo – oo – oo – oo, I’m tahred of the country. I want to gow ’owm.’
Eglantine entered the gate determinedly.
‘Come orn!’ she said.
‘They’ll turn us out,’ said William.
Eglantine squared her thin shoulders.
‘Let ’em jes’ troi turnin’ me aht,’ she said.
‘Not much,’ murmured William proudly.
They passed with no opposition up the first part of the drive. Then Eglantine saw a hedge with a gate in it and marshalled her party through that. Within they saw a lawn, some gardens, and a fountain.
‘Looks orl roight,’ commented Eglantine loftily.
A young man rose languidly from a hammock in the trees.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said politely.
‘Grarnted,’ said Eglantine, not to be outdone in politeness.
‘Can I do anything for you?’ said the young man.
‘We’re St Luke’s and St Mary’s,’ explained Eglantine importantly.
‘I see,’ said the young man. ‘You, I presume are a St Mary, and he of the horsey headgear is a St Luke.’
‘ ’Im?’ said Eglantine, pointing at William, ‘ ’e’s a horphin.’
The young man adjusted a monocle.
‘Really,’ he said, ‘how intensely interesting!’
‘We’ve come into the country fer a ’oliday,’ went on Eglantine, ‘an’ we jes’ cime in ’ere ter see wot it was loike in ’ere.’
‘How extremely kind of you!’ said the young man, ‘I hope you like it.’
Eglantine surveyed the scene distantly.
‘Wiv a band an’ some swings an’ a hice cream cart, it’d be orl roight,’ she admitted.
The young man sighed.
‘I suppose so,’ he said.
Most of the children were already making the best of their opportunities. Some were chasing butterflies, some picking flowers, some had taken off shoes and stockings and were paddling in the ornamental pond. The young man watched them rather despondently.
‘If I’d known that you were coming,’ he said, ‘I’d have procured something in the way of a band and ice-cream cart.’
Eglantine again was not to be outdone in politeness. She stood, a curious picture, in her blue dress, white stockings, yellow boots, with her over-frizzed hair standing out around her sharp little face beneath her feathered hat, and nodded slightly.
‘Hits of no consequnce,’ she said graciously.
She had the situation entirely in hand. Even William, born leader as he was, was overshadowed by her, and was content that it should be so. Just as two small boys had climbed the pedestal in the middle of the ornamental pond and were endeavouring to stop up the fountain, a butler came down the path with an expression of horror on his face. The young man waved him away
‘It’s all right, Thomson,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the man, ‘but her ladyship has arrived, sir. Her ladyship has had her boxes sent upstairs. I thought I’d better warn you, sir.’
The young man groaned.
‘Is there time for me to be summoned to town?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied the butler. ‘She’s coming to find you now, sir. Here she is, sir.’
A large woman bore down upon them. She wore a large cloak and a large hat, and several Pomeranians trotted at her heels.
The young man rose to receive her.
‘Here you are, Bertram,’ she said. ‘You didn’t invite me, but I’ve come.’
‘How awfully good of you,’ said the young man dispiritedly.
The lady put up her lorgnettes and surveyed the children.
‘Who – are – these – ragamuffins?’ she said slowly and distinctly.
‘Oh, just a nice little party of mine,’ said the young man pleasantly. ‘St Luke’s and St Mary’s. You’ll get awfully fond of them. They’re very lovable.’
The lady’s face became stony
‘Are you aware,’ she said, ‘that they’re trampling on the flowers and splashing in the pond and sitting on the sundial?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he smiled. ‘Just jolly childish pranks, you know.’
And that one in the awful tweed cap—’
‘He’s an orphan,’ said the young man. ‘I’m going to give you the room next to his. He’s got quite a jolly voice. I heard him humming to himself a moment ago.’
At this point four things happened.
One – William, who had wandered over the flower beds, was suddenly impelled by the general brightness of the day to give vent to his feelings by a burst of song –
One more river, an’ that’s the river of Jor – or – or – ordan,
One more river, there’s one more river to cross . . .
He yelled the words happily in his strident young voice.
Two – The small pessimist again lifted up her voice in a wail. ‘Oo – oo – oo – oo. I’m tahred of the country I want to gow ’owm. Oo – oo – oo.’
Three – Eglantine, who had surveyed the visitor in outraged silence for a few moments, at last burst forth. She set her thin hands on her thin hips and began.
‘An’ oo’re you ter talk abaht ragamuffins? Queen of Hengland, are yer? An’ wot abaht yer own ’at? A-hinsultin’ of hother people in hother people’s gardings.’
Four – The five Poms, excited by the uproar, burst into simultaneous yapping.
Above the horrible sounds of William’s song, the pessimist’s wails, Eglantine’s recriminations, the Poms’ yapping, the lady screamed to her nephew.
WILLIAM YELLED THE WORDS IN HIS STRIDENT YOUNG VOICE.
‘I’m going straight home, Bertram. When you have a Christian house to invite me to, perhaps you’ll let me know.’
William Again Page 6
